away from them, and almost smack right into Ollie Poe.
He just stares through me like everyone else, eyes going back to the fence, back to where the table sits battered and forlorn, and a boy without a jacket is feeling rough tonight.
The yard is grassless, packed with dirt and wet, putrid leaves. They ooze sickly between my toes as I start across it. When the wind blows, it cuts through my pajamas like a surgical knife.
The picnic table is the stolen-from-the-park variety, gouged with pocketknife graffiti. When I lean down to look under it, Marshall Holt is sitting on the ground with his head bent and his knees drawn up.
This is not the indifferent Marshall in Spanish class, and not the cool crossword expert from my dream. He’s got his arms around himself, holding the points of his shoulders. When he looks at me, his pupils seem to be swallowing his irises like spilled ink.
With a quick, electric pulse beating time behind my breastbone, I move closer. “Hey. What are you doing?”
His breath comes out in a strangled gasp, but he doesn’t answer. His eyes are locked on mine.
I scoot up against the table, leaning farther into the dark. “Marshall, why are you under there?”
He flinches and turns his face hard against his shoulder.
“Hey,” I whisper. My voice sounds careful and slow. I can almost feel myself sinking deeper into the dream. Letting it wash over me. I would never be so gentle or so forward in real life. “Hey, Marshall, look at me. Why won’t you look at me?”
When he speaks, his voice is hoarse and cracking, barely audible. “You’re not real.”
I prop my elbows on the bench. “You should come out from there.”
“No,” he whispers, keeping his face turned away. Then, without warning, he swings around, eyes huge and dark in the shadow of the table. “It’s bad—it’s so bad. The ground is falling apart, it’s peeling up all over the place. The moon’s like a death’s-head.”
I sit in the dirt and look up. Above the trees, the moon is low, glowing orchid-white against the sky. Wispy clouds feather out, drifting in front of it, but in the dark, they appear to be reaching from behind it like spectral fingers. Or bones.
I keep expecting the scene to shift, the way things do in dreams, mutating from raucous house party to something else. Maybe, if I’m following Marshall’s train of thought, a history lesson on Nazi insignia throughout World War II?
But the ground underneath me seems solid enough, and when I glance up again, the moon is just a moon. “It looks okay to me. Really.”
He doesn’t answer, working at the dirt with the toe of his sneaker.
“Marshall, relax. It’s going to be fine.”
“Please,” he whispers. “Stop saying my name.”
I nod, trying to look reassuring. “Okay, I won’t say your name.”
For a long time, neither of us says anything. He sits with his arms around himself, breathing in long, whining gasps. Then he closes his eyes and wets his lips. “If you’re real, then touch me.”
I reach under the table, into the blue-black shadow, and after a second, he reaches back.
His fingers are warm, softer and more cautious than I expected, tangling with mine, and then he yanks his hand back, twisting away from me, covering his head with his arms. His breath sounds tight and panicked.
In my mom’s clinician handbook, it advises that when people are operating under the influence of psychoactive drugs, you should ask them simple, manageable questions that will help you make their surrounding environment more comfortable. The bonus is that sometimes this lets you evaluate their mental state without sounding like you’re interrogating them.
I stay right there in the dirt, leaning close, and don’t say his name. The ground is wet and there’s a soggy residue soaking through my pajamas. “Are you cold?”
He buries his face in the crook of his elbow. His shirt seems to glow up out of the dark like a lit bulb. All I can see is the curve of
He just stares through me like everyone else, eyes going back to the fence, back to where the table sits battered and forlorn, and a boy without a jacket is feeling rough tonight.
The yard is grassless, packed with dirt and wet, putrid leaves. They ooze sickly between my toes as I start across it. When the wind blows, it cuts through my pajamas like a surgical knife.
The picnic table is the stolen-from-the-park variety, gouged with pocketknife graffiti. When I lean down to look under it, Marshall Holt is sitting on the ground with his head bent and his knees drawn up.
This is not the indifferent Marshall in Spanish class, and not the cool crossword expert from my dream. He’s got his arms around himself, holding the points of his shoulders. When he looks at me, his pupils seem to be swallowing his irises like spilled ink.
With a quick, electric pulse beating time behind my breastbone, I move closer. “Hey. What are you doing?”
His breath comes out in a strangled gasp, but he doesn’t answer. His eyes are locked on mine.
I scoot up against the table, leaning farther into the dark. “Marshall, why are you under there?”
He flinches and turns his face hard against his shoulder.
“Hey,” I whisper. My voice sounds careful and slow. I can almost feel myself sinking deeper into the dream. Letting it wash over me. I would never be so gentle or so forward in real life. “Hey, Marshall, look at me. Why won’t you look at me?”
When he speaks, his voice is hoarse and cracking, barely audible. “You’re not real.”
I prop my elbows on the bench. “You should come out from there.”
“No,” he whispers, keeping his face turned away. Then, without warning, he swings around, eyes huge and dark in the shadow of the table. “It’s bad—it’s so bad. The ground is falling apart, it’s peeling up all over the place. The moon’s like a death’s-head.”
I sit in the dirt and look up. Above the trees, the moon is low, glowing orchid-white against the sky. Wispy clouds feather out, drifting in front of it, but in the dark, they appear to be reaching from behind it like spectral fingers. Or bones.
I keep expecting the scene to shift, the way things do in dreams, mutating from raucous house party to something else. Maybe, if I’m following Marshall’s train of thought, a history lesson on Nazi insignia throughout World War II?
But the ground underneath me seems solid enough, and when I glance up again, the moon is just a moon. “It looks okay to me. Really.”
He doesn’t answer, working at the dirt with the toe of his sneaker.
“Marshall, relax. It’s going to be fine.”
“Please,” he whispers. “Stop saying my name.”
I nod, trying to look reassuring. “Okay, I won’t say your name.”
For a long time, neither of us says anything. He sits with his arms around himself, breathing in long, whining gasps. Then he closes his eyes and wets his lips. “If you’re real, then touch me.”
I reach under the table, into the blue-black shadow, and after a second, he reaches back.
His fingers are warm, softer and more cautious than I expected, tangling with mine, and then he yanks his hand back, twisting away from me, covering his head with his arms. His breath sounds tight and panicked.
In my mom’s clinician handbook, it advises that when people are operating under the influence of psychoactive drugs, you should ask them simple, manageable questions that will help you make their surrounding environment more comfortable. The bonus is that sometimes this lets you evaluate their mental state without sounding like you’re interrogating them.
I stay right there in the dirt, leaning close, and don’t say his name. The ground is wet and there’s a soggy residue soaking through my pajamas. “Are you cold?”
He buries his face in the crook of his elbow. His shirt seems to glow up out of the dark like a lit bulb. All I can see is the curve of
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